the prophet ezekiel (written july 5, 2020) — fiction

tearing down the illusions of rochester hills — fiction

In the shower, I haven’t washed between my buttcheeks in fifteen years, and I haven’t cleaned my boxers either. When I spread the cheeks, I can hear the crackling of skin and hairs coming unstuck. I stand in the shower sometimes, yes, but I just let the water slide down my skin.

The school hasn’t been able to take any action regarding my body odor, although kids always complain when they’re seated beside me. My mom has tried several times to locate my old clothes and throw them away, but I’ve hidden them well. Our house is huge. In some places, they’d call it a mansion. Here, they just call it an ordinary house.

“Ezekiel,” my mom said, “you are not leaving this house like that.”

I had just come downstairs wearing what I always wear to the high school football games. Jeans that my mom bought years ago with several holes in them. They’re short on me now; they end just above my ankle. The entire pattern of my boxers is visible through the big hole in the crotch. My Oakland University sweater, too, is torn in a few spots, but I’ve got a jacket with a broken zipper thrown over it.

Mortal, I read and hear, for I am more than just a reader of these books, you are living in the midst of a rebellious house, who have eyes to see but do not see, who have ears to hear but do not hear; for they are a rebellious house.

Ignoring her, I walked toward the door. I was going to jog two miles to the football game.

“Ezekiel,” my mom shouted. “Stop right now. You are NOT going out there like that!”

I turned to her. She knew what I knew, that she’d been cheating on my dad.

“So writes Ezekiel,” I said, “You were adorned with gold and silver, while your clothing was of fine linen, rich fabric, and embroidered cloth. But you trusted in your beauty, and played the whore because of your fame, and lavished your whorings on any passer-by.”

She stopped shouting at me. I stood at the door, my hand on the handle. She stood in the middle of the kitchen, wanting to speak but knowing she could say nothing.

“Therefore,” I continued, “O daughter of Jefferson, hear the word of the Lord, - ”

“Okay, shut up,” she said. “Just get the fuck out of here, Ezekiel. I’m so fucking sick of this.”

There is an especially powerful illusion of immortality in these lands. Here we all live in big, clean houses with bright green lawns. The summer means fresh-cut grass, sprinklers, swimming pools, country clubs, yacht clubs, swim clubs, tennis clubs. The fall means fearless trick-or-treaters roaming through the neighborhoods, beautiful dead leaves falling from the thousands of trees, high school football games on Friday nights, college football games on Saturdays. The drama for adolescents here is no more than a high school crush or a difficult test or complicated essay or a college application. It’s all summarized perfectly in emo music lyrics.

The people here have spent years refusing to see, refusing to hear what’s out there.

And so, to show them, I jogged two miles in the setting sun toward the high school football stadium. It was 70 degrees in early September. It was far too hot to be wearing as many layers as I was. By the time I arrived at the ticket stand, my sweater was soaking wet. Even I, though used to it, could smell the stench coming out of my armpits, groin, and belly. A crowd of beautiful girls in my grade quickly moved away from me as I made my way toward the entrance gate.

Although they have ears, they refuse to hear, I thought. Although they have eyes, they refuse to see. But not tonight. The rot of Babylon shall take you, O Jerusalem.

I walked between the field and the stands. I knew I’d never speak with her, but she would always tempt me in my fantasies. I looked at all those kids sitting there in the marching band section; I thought about how sad I was going to be to see them all die. If only they saw, if only they heard.

I walked over to the cheerleaders. I was standing between them and the marching band. The game hadn’t started. They were doing warmups.

“Hear me!” I shouted at them.

They knew who I was. I did this every week; I’d been doing it every year since sixth grade. They mostly carried on with their exercises, ignoring me. Some of them couldn’t help but back away.

“As I live, says the Lord God,” I said, remembering, “your sister Sodom and her daughters have not done as you and your daughters have done.”

As I spoke, I could see the cheerleaders losing the will to ignore me. They weren’t able any longer to focus on their exercises. They were beginning to see, they were beginning to hear. Behind me, I could feel the whole marching band looking at me.

Conversations behind me went silent. People were listening to me, if only for a moment. Soon, they’d send me away to the corner of grass near the endzone. That is where they always made me stand.

“O daughters of Jefferson! This was the guilt of your sister Sodom,” I continued, loudly shouting at the cheerleaders. “She and her daughters had pride, excess of food, and prosperous ease, but did not help the poor and needy. They were haughty, and did abominable things before me; therefore - ”

“That’s enough, Ezekiel.”

I turned and saw him - the Assistant Principal, Mr. Fox, coming over to me in khakis and a polo.

“We agreed you can only preach over there,” he said, pointing to a corner of grass on the other side of the stands. “We can’t keep going through this every week.”

“In Babylon they shall die,” I said, pointing at the cheerleaders. “In Babylon these daughters of Jefferson shall surely die.”

“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Fox. “Please go over to your corner.”

I kept walking in front of the stands. This was my sixth year doing this each Friday night. Yet still, other kids whispered and pointed at me.

“In Babylon you shall die,” I said, gesturing at them as I walked.

*********

I went to Kensington Community Church to preach to them. Thousands of people, overwhelmingly white, attend that mega church. They refuse to hear and they refuse to see.

The people in the audience are wealthy. Pastor Paul gives “sermons” about how to manage money. They encourage tithing - “Save 10, Give 10, Live on 80.” The giving goes to them.

They collect hundreds of thousands in revenue from the community. They use it to put on state-of-the-art performances at Easter and Christmas for entertainment and “worship.” They maintain their own little Christian rock bands and teams of actors for skits and plays. They hire their sons and daughters to run their arts and youth programs for lucrative salaries. They house their leadership in buildings that would be called mansions in other parts of the world, but here they are just called houses. Sometimes they go on mission trips to South America, Africa, and India; they use the video footage to raise more money.

The doctrine they preach is that all that matters in the end is an individual person’s individual relationship with Jesus Christ.

Although they have ears, they refuse to hear; although they have eyes, they refuse to see.

I went to the youth group one Thursday evening wearing my traditional garb. They were meeting that night in my high school’s gym. Some kids recognized me from school, but there were also kids there from other high schools. My stench caused even those who couldn’t see me to immediately back away from where I stood.

“You are a rebellious house!” I shouted at them all.

But the church wouldn’t tolerate me like the school did. I could see the youth group leaders already hurrying toward me.

“So says the Lord God,” I shouted at them all, thinking of their lives of luxury and ease, thinking about the misdirected generosity with which their parents gave them everything they wanted, “the plunder of the poor is in your houses! What do you mean by crushing my people and grinding the faces of the poor? So speaks the Lord God of hosts!”

Pastor Paul’s son, a youth minister in his twenties, walked up to me. I could see him wince as his nose picked up my stench. “Ezekiel, you cannot come here like that. You need to take a shower and then you can come back.”

I smiled at him. The two of us were standing in an empty circle, cleared out since so many were trying to stay away from me.

I turned and pointed at everyone around me. I shouted again. The entire gym with its hundreds of kids was silent. “The Lord will take away the finery!” The silence gave way to some boos and hisses. “Instead of a sweet smell there will be a stench,” I continued. I lifted my arms so the smell could better exit through the holes in my clothes. The booing became louder; only those closest could hear me. Still, I shouted: “Instead of a sash, a rope. Instead of well-set hair, baldness. You will lose all of it - the jingling anklets, the scarves, and the crescents; the pendants, the bracelets, and the veils; the perfume boxes, the charms, and the rings! Feel my stench!”

I rushed toward a nearby group of daughters of Jefferson. They screamed and backed away.

“My dad says you’re a heretic!” screamed some kid.

Two security guards grabbed me and escorted me outside. I walked willingly and calmly. I had done all I needed to do tonight. They wouldn’t stop thinking of me. They would remember the stench. They would remember my words. I would not let them live inside their illusion forever.

I stood outside alone for a bit. It was just getting dark outside. It was still nice and warm. Aspects of summer were lingering.